


You're Not a Country

by AdditionalStickers



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Isolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdditionalStickers/pseuds/AdditionalStickers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England's people didn't believe in him anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not a Country

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is an old fic I wrote back when I still Hetalia'd in 2012.  
> I played fast and loose with how things work with the whole countries shebang and there's some mighty awkward formatting choices, but hey. I gone done and wrote it.  
> It's rough around the edges (and paragraphs will never forgive me) but hopefully you'll get some enjoyment out of it!

In the beginning he was content with only his creatures for company. People were to be avoided, like his brothers.

People were dangerous, the fairies would whisper. He would ask if he was dangerous and they'd say no. 

He wasn't a person, so he didn't count.

They would comb their fingers through his hair and lay upon his chest at night, soothing him with their faint breath.

At some point he had blended into the people - had left behind the forests and fairies (at least as a home). Something was changing.

One day he realised he had a name.

Albion grew stronger, over time, through struggles and battles and death. Unity.

For a time he was worshipped; he was not just the unaging child but their very _life_.

He did not understand this, but it made him happy.

Time passed and things changed. More death, more grief, more people. His name changed and he was sad.

The fairies cooed and pulled on his hair, memories flitting through his mind from their touch.  They would settle on his head and shoulders, nestled up close.

He had not realised how much he had grown.

The people became organised, unified, and he was with them. He was important - essential.

He saw his brothers many times.

He grew tall and proud leaving no doubt that he was England. Or so he had thought.

"Countries are not people," they had sneered. He had grown distant from the common folk, locked away with the rulers.

"We do not need you to run our country. England does not need you -"

"I am England," he drew himself up to his full height with furrowed brows and a rigid posture. "Do not speak for me."

They had ridiculed him, spat at him. A man cannot live as long as he had nor bear the scars he claimed to own. They had dragged him away to his sentence, seemingly ignorant to his very being.

"If you are immortal then our descendants will see you."

They threw him in a room and locked the door, his curses muffled by the thick stone walls.

So he waited.

And waited.

After a week he grew used to the lack of food and water, maintained only by his existence as a nation.

After a month he grew used to the total darkness.

After a year he grew used to silence.

As time passed wounds would appear abruptly, signalling a battle of some sort. He knew he should be out there receiving those wounds

But nature did not care that he was locked away. He was England and he would bear the country's aches.

One day he heard scraping.

"What are you doing?" His voice came out as an unpractised rasp.

A loud curse and a clatter. "You're _alive_?!"

"I'm England," he said lamely. "Of course I'm alive."

The man did not reply and by the next day the door had been bricked up.

Perhaps the strangest part of not witnessing the events was the feelings.

Hatred would pump through him and he'd let out a strangled cry, beating at the walls. He'd tear that bastard apart! 

Afterwards he'd try to remember who the bastard was.

_France would wonder why he was the only nation on the battlefield, crying out in surprise as he'd be struck by an invisible blade. His battle scars felt unearned and his (justified) hatred empty._

In the dark England had plenty of time to think, to ask questions and to not know answers. Did his brothers know where he was? A sting of pain and he realised they did not (could not) care.

England knew every little corner of his land, and was painfully aware of where he had been staying. There were less and less people and they all seemed unaware of his little cell. His screams would echo dully through the walls, nothing more than a ghost story.

He wondered if his people knew he existed.

Hundreds of years passed, England would talk to himself if only to remember how, spurring on the tales of ghosts. There were no windows but sometimes he thought he heard the fairies flittering around outside, murmuring softly.

He did not know if it was night or day.

England did not bother opening his eyes anymore and clung to his memories of the light.

He was suddenly aware of his brothers, of their pain and peace. A dull sensation in the back of his mind. It made him smile.

_His brothers were surprised when they made a connection, as they stood around the table. Perhaps France was right and he had turned invisible, silently striking them on the battlefield._

_But they knew that was wrong._

For a time England felt prideful, magnificent, grand. He did not know why. He felt like more than an island, he was reaching, massive, _empire_.

He wished he could see it.

The emotions were strange then. Twisting and fleeting, he felt something foreign and unknown. A deep affection - paternal, perhaps, but that would be too kind a word for it. Possessive, and yet familial.

_America did not know where England was - he was his colony so he should be there, right?_

_The child felt this great mix of feelings, reaching out for someone who wasn't there. Sometimes he would cry._

_America would ask and the people (England's people) would shuffle their feet and change the topic, almost sheepishly. Guiltily._

_Despite all the humans who cared for him, America felt something was missing._

_He was one of many._

_He felt so disappointed, as he stared down into the mud, but he didn't know what he was looking at._

_He was independent now, free from his invisible... Captor._

England screamed.

His world fell away leaving only agony.

No creature slept that night, as he wailed into the cold, dark floor. His voice finally breaking through the crumbling walls.

No human was there to hear him.

England – his name, _him_ , he was still _England_ \- became aware of how pitiful he was. He had not bathed in centuries and it was doubtful that his clothes could be considered so much as rags.

After centuries without, he found himself desperately trying to remember what it was like to eat and drink.  Or to feel the warmth of another - to hug.

Impossible things.

He was so tired.

He wanted to see his land again, but dreaded being found. 

England was ashamed.

 

He could see the sky through a hole that was forming in the wall.

England had cried from joy when he first saw a fairy peer inside.

He watched the hole grow, now joined by the fairies. He was dull and boring and _pitiful_ but they did not leave. Even when his heart felt as if it was burning and his people screamed, spurring him into frantic motion, they stayed.

One day he stood up.

His legs shook and his head swam, but he stood. He stepped, hands rested on the wall as the fairies encouraged him.

It was the first time he had used his legs since... He couldn't remember and didn't care to. His strength was still there, if only he could use it.

It took him a day to finally escape through the hole; a day of falling and shaking but he had done it.

It felt as if the wind was kissing his face as he stumbled outside, welcoming England back home. He looked out over the hills and saw strange winding black lines, wooden fences and distant lights.

He did not recognise it, but it was him.

 

England had spent some days recovering in a nearby forest before he felt confident enough to leave.

The fairies sang their warnings and he took them to heart. He made sure to bid each of them goodbye.

He had stolen some clothes from a farmhouse he stumbled across. Not exactly a shining moment, but a necessity. England had no money or belongings, something he soon found to be a major drawback. A friendly driver-by picked him up from the road side.

He was hurriedly left in the nearest town after asking what a car was.

England considered his options; walking down to London, his heart, on the off-chance he still had a house after hundreds of years or... walking up to Scotland, far closer than Wales or London.

England forgot their wars and squabbles, their mutual hatred. He missed his brothers.

He began to walk, letting instinct guide him.

Almost a week later there was a knock on Scotland's door.

Curses and shouts dragged Scotland to the door. He propped himself against it with an ice-pack pressed firmly to his head. "Who the -"

"Hello," England's voice was quiet and raspy, despite his best efforts. His eyes darted away from his brother’s face, suddenly remembering their last meeting. Their last fight. That vivid memory of _brother_ , now mismatched and unlike the man ( _nation_ ) before him.

Scotland saw a stranger in ragged, mismatched clothes on his doorstep. At first he thought it was a hobo, but then he noticed the man's face.

Or more precisely: eyebrows.

Great big bushy eyebrows above green eyes and below a scruffy mop of blonde hair.

A rush of emotions filled Scotland: relief, anger, confusion, worry, joy -

Scotland punched him.

 

One of the first things Scotland had noticed, after he had invited his long-lost brother inside, was how empty he was.

He would stare at every little thing, quietly considering it and committing it to memory. 

"Put my slipper down, brother,"

There was no retort, he simply put it down and moved onto the next item.

England had obviously been with the fairies recently; he would look over his shoulder expectantly and the few times he talked his sentences were short and faltering, more melodious than coherent. Sometimes he spoke in the old language.  His ignorance to simple inventions - Scotland wondered how long he’d had only fairies for company.

Scotland was now in his kitchen brewing a pot of tea. England - no -the English people liked tea, right? He had so many questions, but now was not the time.

He set the teapot down in front of England and turned to grab his phone from the wall.

It was oddly painful to see England stare at the pot with such... Bafflement. (On the other hand, it was also hilarious.)

His brother startled as Scotland dialled the number, the ringing foreign to him.

"Hello?" England leaned forward inquisitively, frowning at the muffled voice emitted by the device.

"Wales. You need to come over,"

Wales. England remembered Wales. Brother. His voice had changed - but so had Scotland's.

"What, now? I-"

"Yes, now!" Scotland snapped, "This is a whole fucking lot more important than whatever the hell you're doing."

"I can't just ditch the world mee - "

"He's here," Scotland interrupted again, a sigh grating from his throat.

"Who?" With an impatient grunt Scotland shoved the phone into England's face, startling him. He stared at England expectantly, ignoring the muffled complaints of their brother.

"Say hello."

"Seriously, Scotland, I don't have time for this -"

"Hello?" England apprehensively spoke into the phone. There was a sharp intake of breath and then silence.

"Who is this?"

England didn't respond, gazing at the phone with misty eyes.

"G'on. Tell him," Scotland moved the phone closer and England hesitantly clasped it in his hands.

"England."

 

The three brothers once more lived under the same roof, although it would be more accurate to say it was the first time.

Northern Ireland would stop by (rarely) and other nations never really paid any surprise visits. England was recovering whilst the rest of the world and his government remained oblivious.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, a statement which seemed to apply to England. In fact, he was painfully pleasant, oblivious to the centuries of further conflict.

Sometimes his face would twitch into a frown or he'd clench his fists. His brothers saw each of these as little victories.

They celebrated at the local pub after England's first argument. They made a pact to start building up his alcohol tolerance.

 

He was fucking intolerable, Scotland concluded. There was no way he missed this little shit and he definitely wasn't relieved to see him acting 'normal'.

He certainly didn't feel sad whenever his terrible younger brother’s eyes clouded over or when they'd find him sitting with all the lights on and the windows thrown open.

Scotland was also not keeping England's return a secret for _his_ benefit. 

He just didn't want to deal with the resulting clusterfuck.

 

It was either an excellent or down right terrible thing that England returned in time for punk rock.

On one hand it was a great confidence booster. On the other hand the world neither wanted nor was prepared for delinquent England.

Punk England was actually rather fun, at least comparatively. He began to meld into the crowds again, he could shout and laugh. There was a small moment of pride when they had to pick him up from jail after his first bar fight.

But then they had to tell him to behave. Scotland was starting to feel like an old (brother) man. He'd have to remember to give England hell for this.

 

It had been almost, what, two decades? But they felt it was finally time for England to return to the world.

Scotland had left back up north to his real house and Wales was only staying until the next World Meeting.

Scotland's farewell had been appropriately angry and cold, save for the firm grip he’d had on England’s shoulders.

The next World Meeting was in London, and that was what had spurred them into reintroducing England. Officially it was being hosted 'by the United Kingdom'' but Wales had represented the U.K. at previous meetings.

England's suit was ironed to perfection, a comb half-heartedly dragged through his hair and his shoes polished to a shine.

They arrived early, Wales ushering him to his seat. Wales had sat down and told him how the meetings worked, the topic of the day's discussion and such like; then he had left England alone in the room with a cup of tea and a notepad.

So England waited.

 

When the other nations arrived it was in a sudden stream, few pausing to react to the stranger as most dismissed him as Wales with barely a glance.

The meeting room was full of noise and England felt a little overwhelmed.

Going to concerts had helped him grow used to crowds, but he had never been expected to know them all before.

"Where's Wales?" A quiet voice spoke up next to him, startling England.

"I, uh," he caught himself and cleared his throat, "he's at home."

"Oh," Canada frowned, worry overriding his delight at being noticed. He tightened his grip on Kumajiro. "Who are you?"

Before England could answer the door banged open. "The hero has arrived!"

"You're late," Germany commented.

"The hero is always just on time!" America laughed, his voice booming through the room as he went to his seat.

Germany stood and banged his hand on the table and the room fell silent, save for the sound of nations scuffling to their seats.

"This meeting is now in session! Today’s meeting was to be hosted by Wales, in representation of the United Kingdom. However… Wales isn’t here."

"Hey, isn't Wales right there?" America shouted as he unwrapped a burger.

"No," Germany looked at England, signalling him to stand up.

"I am not Wales," England announced as he stood up. He’d have felt silly, if every eye in the room hadn’t fell upon him. He met their gazes. (Who are they?)

"Then, who are you?" Germany spoke coolly but with no small amount of suspicion.

"Maybe he's a spy!" The nations began to murmur, exclaiming different theories.

England's throat was dry, but he hid his discomfort. "England."

"...What?"

"I am England." The last time he said that he had been locked away for centuries, his fists tightened involuntarily. This time he was ready to defend himself.

The room exploded into noise, expressions ranging from disbelief to serious to simply uncaring.

"So, you're England? Hahaha, wow you're an ugly bastard, no wonder you never showed your face!" It was America's shout that he noticed first, as it was delayed from the rest. His expression did not match his voice.

England shook his head firmly, but didn't speak. There was an awkward silence, everyone’s eyes drawn to his movement.

"You are going to say where you were, right?" Someone hesitantly spoke up, England's eyes were fixed on the table.

"People are dangerous."

But he was not a person.

"What?"

So he didn't count.

England sat down and began to match up the faces.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Here's some of the original Authors Notes that I left on the iPod Touch I scrounged this off of. (Yes, really.)  
> \---  
> Let's just call this a guilty pleasure, mm'k? ;)  
> I missed out some major parts of England's history... Only so much you can read about a guy in a jail cell, though.  
> "This is horribly inaccurate." Shush.  
> "Why didn't Wales/NI/Ireland do anything?" I... Don't really know anything about stereotypes or the 'general attitude' of Wales. I just felt more comfortable throwing Scotland on the end of sentences. Same goes for Northern Ireland.  
> Plus they aren't 'official' characters yet, so I figured it'd be best to not focus on them too much.  
> I hope no-one minds that I missed out on the accents.  
> Was hit in the face by another Hetalia faze thanks to the fan rpgs and tv tropes. All I wanted to do was check to see if there were designs for the other british nations yet...  
> \----  
> I also unearthed an over-scoped plot layout for a D.Gray-Man/Harry Potter crossover as well as genderbent (not really the best word for it, sorry) Magic Kaito & FF7 ficlets. Wild times.


End file.
